17 March 2007

Double Leopards

I think everyone should have sworn enemies. A Nemesis. Whatever the plural of nemesis is. I've had a few. At University, I stole a guy's mail for an entire year, even when it entailed getting up at ridiculous hours in the morning to go downstairs and check the pigeonholes. He thought all his old friends had forgotten him. He thought his parents had forgotten he existed. I can't remember why he was my arch enemy but I remember that it seemed worth it at the time. Others have gone to prison, been sacked, found themselves unable to use their minds.

Only two left now. One woman, one man. I saw the woman last week, first time in 6 years. She now works where I work. I wasn't sure she recognised me until she ran into the door and crunched herself. She has a face that looks like it was attacked by a plunger and then a child with a biro and an insatiable need to draw comedy spectacles onto 1950s magazines. I'm going to take my time with her, work out a suitable revenge. The other one, the guy, I haven't seen since. He has the advantage of expecting Hell to break loose. He's keeping low, like a hyena. He's a grass dweller, a mole-skin, a sheep killing dog. I'm playing Double Leopards Halve Maen over and over again, just to get me in the mood. To keep me in the mood. It's not an album I particularly like. It can go on a bit. But it's fit for purpose. Perfect for condensed thought. It's dream machine music, an aural flicker that doesn't seem to be. Not Autechre. An arc of blood across the bed like an artery.